


Punishment

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: District 9 (2009)
Genre: Alien Character(s), Aliens, Amorality, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Begging, Childhood Memories, Crying, Dark, Depressing, Disappointment, Disapproving Family, Drabble, Dubious Morality, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Exhaustion, Feelings of Inadequacy, Fucked Up, Good Intentions, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Inappropriate Erections, Infidelity, Introspection, Loneliness, M/M, Marriage, Masturbation, Memories, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misery, One-Sided Attraction, Orgasm, Painful Sex, Pity Sex, Rape Fantasy, Sad, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Pity, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Repression, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness, Transformation, Trust Issues, Xeno, attempted comfort, no idea where this sits in the canon but idk i needed to write really dark angst porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wikus wonders if this is punishment for his short-comings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> warning: prawn is used instead of poleepkwa because 3rd-person, wikus-centric voice

* * *

There's a part of him that wonders if it's punishment. Punishment for what, exactly, he is not sure - there are too many things he has done that he is not proud of. He doesn't consider his work in detail - there are implications there that he knows will lead him to open a mental door he has kept firmly locked for years. Besides, at the end of the day, a job is a job. He does things by the book, and accomplishes tasks efficiently, for the most part. Always somewhat of an awkward boy, he feels like almost a proper man now, a breadwinner. Someone who embodies authority and order. As for the occasional doubt, well, those he chases away with the reminder that he's never done anything that he wasn't instructed to do, more or less, and that prawns only receive inhospitable treatment when they start breaking rules and looking for trouble.

But then, if it were just about the job, he would have worked through his guilt long ago.

There is no explanation, no amount of childhood trauma or brain injury or instability that could possibly justify why a man with a beautiful wife would let his thoughts stray to forbidden fantasies, daydreams of hulking monstrosities forcing themselves on him without remorse. He had no reason for cumming with his fingers in his arse, face hot with shame, as the water ran cold in the shower and Tania knocked on the door, asking him what was taking him so long. There was no excuse for it then, and there is less excuse for it now, as he lies awake in a shack with the Johnsons asleep beside him and his cock rock hard in his grimy shorts.

Watching Christopher sleep.

He's not sure when his fear and loneliness merged with his dark desires, but here he is, yet again, hard for a fucking prawn.

He hates himself.

This is not new - Wikus has always hated himself, to some degree, so the initial hot rush of blood to his cheeks and the pressure in the back of his throat is familiar. He swallows, gags on his guilt, and it's natural, still, so natural. Self-loathing caresses him like an old friend.

His hand caresses him too - his prawn hand.

He shuts his eyes and hates himself a little bit more.

He wants it to end, the burn of arousal, though he's not sure if he'd rather come or die, at this point. He wants to sleep. In his dreams, his good dreams, he's still human, still with Tania, still old-Wikus. In his bad dreams, he is new-Wikus, torn and dirty, skin split, a mutation. Sometimes he is with Tania, and she hides her face, terrified of him. Sometimes he is in the shack, with Christopher fucking him raw.

In his nightmares, he is nothing at all. A fragment of a memory, a momentary tightness in Tania's chest before she takes a new, whole man to bed.

The images in his mind hurt as much as his arm does, as much as he deserves, Wikus knows, but he opens his eyes like the coward he is, and meets new horror, face to face.

Christopher is watching him too, silent and somber.

Wikus wants to cuss, to cry, to plead his case, to smash Christopher's head in, and his jaw moves uselessly as he tries to formulate some sort of explanation.

"Help me," he begs instead with a choked sob.

He thinks its help me. It could be kill me.

Words mean so little, here.

Wikus does not think of anything but shame as Christopher rises silently from the floor, huge and so far from human, dragging Wikus to his feet. He pushes Wikus through the hatch to the underground chamber of the shack, where the ship is hidden.

Wikus is shaking and his hands and feet are numb. Christopher props him against the wall and he slides down it, boneless. Christopher squats beside him, his face close enough that, had Wikus wanted to, he could kiss that tentacled mouth with his own, split lips. The thought makes him gag. Makes his cock twitch.

Christopher's eyes are full of words and Wikus is so, so tired to interpreting, of speaking, of thinking. He flinches when Christopher moves his limp, mutated hand to the front of his shorts.

"Touch nothing else in this room," the alien says, and turns and leaves.

It is an immense show of trust, on Christopher's part. Trust, and also pity.

Christopher now gone, Wikus pulls out his prick and stares at it, just stares, his arms too heavy to move.

After a time, he realizes he's still shaking. Something wet hits his penis and he reaches up, touches his cheek, and finds he is crying.

Now that he's started, Wikus can't stop the sobs that tear free from his throat. It's all he can do to stuff his dirty fingers in his mouth to muffle the sound as he curls up, shuddering and rocking back and forth.

 _It's not fair,_ he thinks, and then sobs harder because it is. Somehow, deep at the center of his being, the thought that this is punishment, deserved suffering, has taken root. There's no consolation for Wikus now, he knows, and despair wraps around him, binds him like an immense constrictor snake. It squeezes the few last dregs of hope out of him and leaves him weak with grief.

Wikus isn't sure how long he lays there, slumped on the floor, his face sticky where his tears make trenches in the dirt that's caked onto his miserable body, his pitiful face. He's still hard; the universe wants his torture to extend on. He wants to end it, to rub the sin out of his body, purge his sickness for a while, but he can't move. His arms feel like lead and he's cold and exposed and broken and wishes, briefly, for the fleeting, forgotten comfort of his mother's tender kiss on his cheek when he was just a boy, before he'd fallen short of all her expectations.

Wallowing in self-pity is the closest thing to comfort that Wikus has left.

The hatch door opens and suddenly Christopher is back. He sits a short distance away and simply studies Wikus, who is too destroyed to care that his last line of defense has crumbled and succumbed and he is finally as outwardly pathetic as he has always been on the inside.

 _No secrets left, here,_ he thinks, and a weak laugh rattles through his aching chest.

He shuts his eyes when Christopher moves, prepared for any abuses the alien may inflict upon him.

He isn't prepared for the tender way that Christopher caresses his scalp, stroking his thin, greasy hair. He can't comprehend the strange sensation of Christopher's secondary arm reaching for him and settling in the middle of his chest. A fragment of a memory surfaces and Wikus is two, maybe three, and he smells of soap and fresh, nice things, and his mother dries him with a fluffy towel and presses her hand to the same spot, smiling, murmuring praises that make his heart swell.

Christopher's touch slips down his stomach and the memory dissipates and Wikus smells of stale sweat and filth and he is no one's good boy anymore.

When Christopher touches Wikus between his legs, the touch chafes and burns, pulling awkwardly and catching on his hypersensitive skin. It makes his legs shake and convulse, makes him bite his lip till it bleeds from all its half-healed splits. It hurts but, then, that's what he wanted, wasn't it?

Christopher doesn't leave him, even when he chokes and coughs and semen dribbles over Christopher's fingers.

Christopher wipes Wikus's cock with a rag, cleans his face of tears and spit and snot and blood. He props the man up and tugs his shorts back on, before leading Wikus back to the main room and depositing him on the ground with a stern but careful motion. He then turns his back to the human, Wikus realizes when he dares to crack open his eyes at last.

He feels like the loose skin left over from a lanced blister, and the hollowness doesn't fade.

Sleep comes, though. And the pain numbs a little.

As Wikus drifts off, he thinks of Tania, of home, and wonders if memory isn't some sort of punishment, too.


End file.
